Every Man for Himself Part 24

"He-he-he've just _got_ t' have more."

"He've a weak stomach," Aunt Tibbie apologized. "Poor man!"

"I tells you, Tibbie," Jonathan declared, "them parsons haves wonderful hard times. They isn't able t' get out in the air enough. Too much book-study. Too much brain labor. I wouldn't change places with a parson, woman, for all the world!"

Aunt Tibbie nodded absently.

"I 'low," said Jonathan, "I'd better be gettin' under way for the shop."

The man drew on his boots and got into his oil-skins, and had his wrists bandaged and went out. It was a long pull to the shop; but his mind was too full of wonder and sly devising to perceive the labor of the way....

And the trader was silting alone in the shop, perched on the counter, slapping his lean calf with a yardstick, while the rain pattered on the roof and the wind went screaming past.

"You got a parson, Jonathan," said he, accusingly. "Yes, you is."

"Ay," Jonathan admitted, "I got one."

"An' that's what brings you here."

"It be," Jonathan replied, defiantly.

The silence was disquieting.

"I'm 'lowin'," Jonathan stammered, "t'-t'-t' sort o' get four tins o'

beef."

The trader beat his calf.

"An' six pound o' b.u.t.ter," said Jonathan, "an' some pickles."

"Anything else?" the trader snapped.

"Ay," said Jonathan, "they is."

The trader sniffed.

"The parson haven't said nothin', but Tibbie's got a notion that he's wonderful fond o' canned peaches," Jonathan ventured, diffidently. "She 'lows they'll keep his food sweet."

"Anything else?"

"No-oh no!" Jonathan sighed. "I 'low you wouldn't give me three pound o'

cheese?" he asked. "Not that the parson _mentioned_ cheese, but Tibbie 'lows he'd find it healthful." The trader nodded. "About four cans o'

peaches," said Jonathan.

"I see," said the trader.

Jonathan drew a great hand over his narrow brow, where the rain still lay in the furrows. It pa.s.sed over his red whiskers. He shook the rain-drops from his hand.

"Oh, dear!" he sighed.

"Jonathan," said the trader, sharply, "you're a fool. I've long knowed it. But I loves a fool; an' you're the biggest dunderhead I ever knowed.

You can _have_ the cheese; you can _have_ the beef; you can _have_ the peaches. You can have un all. _But_-you got t' pay."

"Oh, ay," said Jonathan, freely. "I'll pay!"

"You'll go without sweetness in your tea," the trader burst out, "all next winter. Understand? No sweetness in your tea. _That's_ how you'll pay. If you takes these things, mark you, Jonathan!-an' hearken well-if you takes these things for your parson, there'll be no mola.s.ses measured out for _you_. You'll take your tea straight. Do you understand me, Jonathan Stock?"

"'Tis well," said Jonathan.

"An'-"

"The other?" Jonathan interrupted, anxiously. "You wasn't 'lowin' t'

have the woman give up that, was you? 'Tis such a little thing."

The trader was out of temper.

"Not that!" Jonathan pleaded.

"Just that!" Totley exclaimed. "I'll not give it to her. If you're t'

have parsons, why, pay for un. Don't come askin' me t' do it for you."

"But she-she-_she's only a woman_! An' she sort o' feels bad. Not that 'twould make any difference t' me-not t' _me_. Oh, I tells her that. But she 'lows she wants it, anyhow. She sort o' _hankers_ for it. An' if you could manage-"

"Not I!" Totley was very much out of temper. "Pay for your own parson,"

he growled.

"Ah, well," Jonathan sighed, "she 'lowed, if you made a p'int of it, that she'd take the grub an' do without-the other. Ay, do without-the other."

So Jonathan went home with what the parson needed to eat, and he was happy.

It was still windy weather. Dusks and dawns came in melancholy procession. The wind swept in the east-high, wet, cold. Fog and rain and drift-ice were to be met on the grounds of Candlestick Cove. From Nanny's Old Head the outlook was more perturbing than ever: the sea's distances were still hid in the mist; the breakers on the black rocks below gave the waste a voice, expressed its rage, its sullen purpose; the grounds where the men of Candlestick Cove must fish were still in a white-capped tumble; and the sores on the wrists of the men of Candlestick Cove were not healed. There was no fish; the coast hopelessly faced famine; men and women and children would all grow lean.

The winter, approaching, was like an angry cloud rising from the rim of the sea. The faces of the men of Candlestick Cove were drawn-with fear of the sea and with dread of what might come to pa.s.s. In the meeting-house of Candlestick Cove, in district meeting a.s.sembled, the Black Bay clergy engaged in important discussions, with which the sea and the dripping rocks and the easterly wind had nothing to do....

The Black Bay parsons were exchanging farewells at the landing-stage.

The steamer was waiting. There had been no change in the weather: the wind was blowing high from the east, there was fog abroad, the air was clammy. Parson Jaunt took Parson All by the arm and led him aside.

"How was you fixed, brother?" he whispered, anxiously. "I haven't had time to ask you before."

Parson All's eyebrows were lifted in mild inquiry.

"Was you comfortable? Did you get enough to eat?"

There was concern in Parson Jaunt's voice-a sweet, wistful consideration.

"Yes, yes!" Parson All answered, quickly. "They are very good people-the Stocks."